


All I Want For Christmas

by poisontaster



Series: Dying is Easy [3]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-05
Updated: 2008-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:44:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>John McClane no longer celebrates Christmas.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wrenlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrenlet/gifts).



> Set 6 months after "Rewriting the Disk". Thanks to Technosage for her hard work and sage advice.

John McClane no longer celebrates Christmas.

In fact, he's under standing orders from his commanding officers _not_ to celebrate Christmas, thank you very much.

No. Seriously. It's in his jacket. Along with all the newspaper articles. Whatever. John doesn't like to talk about it.

The upshot of this is that he always gets the much-desired days between Christmas Eve through New Year's off work (just to be sure). The downside is that, since the divorce (and really, for quite some time before it), John's got damn little to celebrate and—with his five year AA chit hidden somewhere in the jar of spare change on his dresser—not nearly enough to do with his time. 

At least usually.

This year, the kid—and someday, John is going to stop thinking of Matt that way, because it's just fucking creepy—has indicated that he might be interested in coming up to NYC for some R&R and John might also have indicated that might not be the suckiest proposition he's heard in the history of the world and so maybe Matt should do that.

The order from Peapod shows up about three hours before Matt does. John shakes his head and feels his first prickles of unease as he unpacks a whole frozen turkey, a shitload of canned good and more assorted fruits and vegetables than John (a veteran of Millie's Diner up the street) has seen in a decade. He's deeply suspicious; are they supposed to be this _green_?

His phone rumbles on his hip. John flicks it from the holster and flips it open. _Leave the turkey out it needs 2 defrost. In fact DONT TOUCH ANYTHING. B there soon._

John smiles and leaves the turkey sweating in the sink to go to the stereo and put on some Creedence.

*

Matt walks in talking. "Oh, man, I'm so sorry, The Turnpike was a total nightmare, I should've taken the train, I don't know what I was thinking..."

John shuts him up. It's easier now that it used to be—for him, not for Matt, because he thinks Matt's just as happy being shoved into doors and manhandled. John's working on the manhandling. It's weird though, because the thing Holly used to give him the most yang about was that _"you've gotten so hard, John. So cold."_. And John knows it's true. He has gotten harder, tougher, until he feels like he's made of nothing but braided rawhide and blued steel. But Matt… Matt just doesn't seem to notice. Or care.

And the really weird thing is that _because_ Matt doesn't care, John doesn't feel as backed into a corner about the whole thing, doesn't spend so much time worrying about whether he's being tender enough.

…And that's about as much introspection as John can handle in one day.

He closes his eyes and pushes Matt harder into the door, earning a quiet, drawn out moan and the spreading of Matt's legs, enough that he can slip a thigh between them.

The damn turkey can wait.

*

"So I was thinking." Matt turns his head a little on the pillow. He still sounds a little breathless and John smirks with satisfaction. Yeah, he's still got it.

"Always dangerous."

Matt grins and smacks John across the stomach. He leaves his hand there after, knuckles plinking against John's bottom ribs. "I'm spending more than half my time up here. I hardly ever see my apartment."

John's scratching a dried and flaking spot—lube or come he doesn't know and doesn't want to—on his thigh when Matt's words catch up to him and he gets real still. "Yeah, I bet all those dolls are a lot less valuable with dust collecting on them."

Seven months.

Well, a year and seven months if you want to count up _all_ the time they've known each other, but it's been seven months since it's been anything like…well, like _this_ and it's not that John didn't know there was a clock running on all of this, but seven months is kind of record even for him. 

"Funny," Matt says, his tone saying it's anything but. He rolls on his side, fingers straying lower and tracing the cut-curve of John's hip, straying ticklishly into John's pubic hair. "And they're not _dolls_ , jeez. No, but I was thinking. Most of my business is online anyway. There's no reason I _have_ to stay in Camden."

Staring fixedly at the ceiling, John blinks suddenly. Lifts his head to look at Matt. "Wait. What are we talking about?"

Matt widens his eyes, looking vaguely confused. Of course, that's sort of his normal expression. " _I'm_ talking about getting an apartment here in the city. What are _you_ talking about?"

John lets his head fall back on the pillow. "Nothing."

Matt's fingers close around John's softened cock, thumb slipping along the ridge. At the same time, he rolls into John's body, teeth scraping through John's stubble. "Well what do you think?"

John moves, bowling Matt onto his back, grinding the two of them together. His brain's doing another round of _holy shit, John, this is a dude!_ but he's gotten good at ignoring the voices in his head over the years. "Good," he says, grabbing Matt's wrists, pinning them out to either side. "I think that sounds good."

*

John gulps milk straight from the carton, the cold liquid like life's blood. Needs to keep his stamina up, all this fucking around. "So what is all this?"

Matt grabs the carton from him and takes several swallows before belching and wiping milk from his mouth. John's too tired to do much about it, but it looks damn sexy anyway and ain't that a kick? "It's…food." Matt waves his hand. "You know, stuff you eat?"

"Yeah, I got that. But what do we need so much of it for?"

Matt just looks at him and John feels like he kicked a puppy or something. "Well, it's Christmas. I thought we could have Christmas dinner. What were you thinking?"

John scratches the back of his neck shiftily. "I was thinking we'd go up to Millie's. Open 365 days a year."

"Jesus McClane, your arteries must look like the Jersey Turnpike on a summer Sunday. That's not real food!"

"Oh, and you're going to teach me all about real food, huh?" John grabs a hunk of cheese from the cutting board. He hadn't even known he _owned_ a cutting board. There's still a whole bunch of shit left over from the divorce in a box in his cabinet.

"Well, someone has to. I know John McClane's not afraid of anything and all, but I don't want you dying off any time soon."

John doesn't know what to say to that, but it hits him like a belt of Irish finest. He shoves the last bit of cheese in his cheek and says indistinctly, "I gotta piss."

Matt eases up behind him. "Need any help with that, old man?"

"I think I can handle it. Hey—bring some of that cheese back to bed, willya?"

*

 _I didn't get you anything_. It's really late. Matt is nearly asleep. At John's whisper, his eyes crack, a faint gleam in the dark tangle of his hair falling over his face. _A present,_ John persists. _I didn't get you a present._

 _You don't do presents._ Matt's shoulder rolls, a lazy shrug.

John traces the curve of Matt's back, lingers in the deep dip of his spine. When it's late like this, dark, he can be…not hard. He can be amazed. He is amazed.

_I want… Something. Let me do something._

_You don't have to._

_Matt._

A huff, laughter or impatience. Matt rolls from his belly to his side and John's eyes drag down, flat nipples, flat stomach, dark hair that leads to the soft, circumcised cock. Cock, John thinks and reaches to touch. _I want to._

_Really?_

Matt's eyes close as John strokes him. He's better at this. Matt likes it soft, almost teasing. Not like fucking him at all, which is when he wants…harshness. Bruises. But when John touches his cock, it's soft. _Yeah._

 _I want…_ Matt's eyes open. He writhes into John's touch. Puts his hand over John's, pressing in. _I want you to suck me._ His eyes are big, dark. _Would you?_ Another slow roll of his hips. _Would you suck me?_

John's eyes flicker down again. They haven't done that. John… John's not sure how he feels about that, though it may be a weird sticking point after sticking his cock in a guy—in Matt—repeatedly. On more than one occasion.

John thinks about that first time, how he didn't know to touch Matt, to jack him to get him off. How he didn't know Matt would need it, to come. He gets out of his comfortable rut and finds all these new bumps. _I don't… Did you…?_

Matt's smile is crooked. _Nah, things were good. But you asked and… I like having my dick sucked same as the next guy, y'know?_

John knows. But it's different. Feels different.

A year and seven months.

 _You don't have to._ Matt's backpedal is fast and easy.

John knows why it's different.

 _I know that._ He cares enough about Matt to feel like a shit that it's different. That it's okay for him to fuck Matt, to _be_ sucked and not go to his knees in return.

Fag. Faggot.

John is a shit, he knows that. Enough people've told him over the years.

 _Yeah, kid._

But he's not a big enough shit to be like that with Matt.

John's lips feel numb. He is conscious of his mouth. He pushes Matt's hair back from his face and then thumbs Matt's bottom lip. Matt smiles and John feels the flickering wetness of his tongue. _I'll suck you._

John's not good at it. How could he be? But he knows from experience it doesn't take much; a warm mouth, a wet mouth, a little friction and not too much teeth. John doesn't think he likes it much and maybe he takes a little pride in how not-good at it he is, but he does his best to make sure Matt likes it. And he damn sure likes the way Matt's fingers dance over his head, the way he twists on the sheets and the way he sounds like he's dying and enjoying each second of it.

Matt pushes John away a couple seconds before he comes, shooting hot across John's jaw, his neck, his shoulder. It's kind of gross.

John's no stranger to gross, though. He can deal. 

_Didn't think you were ready for the fine art of swallowing._ Matt's grin is big, sleek. Satisfied. John likes that too.

_Yeah, well, I appreciate that. That's very sensitive of you, Compaq._

_That's me, Mr. Sensitivity._ Matt yawns, stretches, flops over on his stomach again. He sleeps on his stomach a lot. John's fine with that. Makes it easier for an early morning quickie. _Merry Christmas, John._

John snorts. _Merry Christmas, kid._


End file.
